


and it's sad to know there's no honest way out

by bigbraveboop



Category: Editor Wilbur ARG - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Game: Editor Wilbur Soot ARG, Kinda?, Obsessive Behavior, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay, betaed we live like jack manifold, mmmm. editor wilbur, to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbraveboop/pseuds/bigbraveboop
Summary: ❝Wilbur is cold. His fingers ache with frostbite, his skin prickles with a bone-deep chill and when he breathes, he can see his breath in the cool December air.The field he sits in is big, expansive, and there are trees that surround the edges. The trees don't have leaves, though. It's winter. Trees don't have leaves in winter. The grass is wet and it soaks into his knees as he kneels on it, jeans being stained with mud. Wilbur has his hands tucked into his armpits, and his black jacket does little to quell the cold around him and inside him.❞⤷ Understanding your new position as king.
Relationships: Ha. No.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	and it's sad to know there's no honest way out

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmm. editor wilbur arg brainrot   
> thanks to nic for beta reading this!  
> title from brave as a noun by ajj
> 
> also, according to ao3 statistics, only a small percentage of people who read my fics actually leave comments and kud- *gets shot*
> 
> \- elisa <3

Wilbur is cold. His fingers ache with frostbite, his skin prickles with a bone-deep chill and when he breathes, he can see his breath in the cool December air.

The field he sits in is big, expansive, and there are trees that surround the edges. The trees don't have leaves, though. It's winter. Trees don't have leaves in winter. The grass is wet and it soaks into his knees as he kneels on it, jeans being stained with mud. Wilbur has his hands tucked into his armpits, and his black jacket does little to quell the cold around him and  _ inside him _ .

The cold bites and scratches at his very core, and with it, something else. An anger, of sorts. An ambition, maybe. It's cold, much like everything else. This cold is different, though. This cold  _ burns _ . His insides are frozen solid, and the angry thing scratches and fights within it's ice prison inside his gut, and every movement the angry beast takes burns him. It's obsessive, it holds his mind in it’s hand and when he gets one taste of it, he only wants more. It calls, it  _ begs _ , it pleads for him to gain more, to take more, to be able to wrap itself around everything he has and freeze the world so only  _ he  _ may have it. So he may stand to gain anything he does so desire.

He can't gain more if he doesn't edit, though. Make those little clues. Jack’s fans seem to really enjoy the clues. Morse code, maybe, for the next one. Another poem, perhaps. Some meaningless lyrics to an indie song that he likes to imagine fits him. Another puzzle piece. That part isn't important, though. What it  _ is _ isn't important.

They need to learn the story. They  _ have  _ to know why. He can't take more of them  _ not _ knowing. In time, Wilbur knows, it will take time, but fuck if the desperation for knowledge doesn't grate against Wilbur’s mind. He knows the fans have their own little discord where they organise and go over evidence, and images, and audio clips, and they drive him  _ up the fucking wall. _ They're so slow, they go wrong so often, and Wilbur has to check into their calls, listen to their info, and steer them clear.

All they need to do is learn. Learn from him. Learn from the clues. He doesn't care, they just  _ need to know.  _

Wilbur is a person. He knows this for a fact, yet somehow Jack and his own brain have teamed up - despite everything - and managed to convince him that he’s some kind of God, or a serial killer, or a vassal for some kind of satanic force. 

Truthfully, Wilbur is a person, but he wishes to gain only what a God could. Everything.

And he supposes with  _ that _ admission, he's supposed to be worthy of something. Something all humans, all people, are worthy of, maybe. Not Wilbur, though. Wilbur spends his time ostracising and abusing his friends and loved ones and he pleasures in hanging fans and strangers from strings that are wound so tightly around Wilbur’s fingers and wrists that they’re beginning to go purple. Wilbur leaves clues to a story and gets fans and friends alike to question his humanity, as if Wilbur isn't questioning it too.

Human beings aren't made to be this cold, after all. Human beings do not obsess over a job, over taking one person's job, unless they are terribly selfish. Then again, selfish is a good word for Wilbur. A selfish, confusing, obsessive madman, completely off his fucking rocker. Barely a person with how much he demands to be more.

The fans demand content, the fans demand clues. Wilbur knows this as he kneels in the mud in a field by a park. He knows this as the mud soaks and coats his knees, as his hands clench around his biceps. The fans demand codes, songs, poetry. Wilbur should provide. 

He should deliver. Steer them into the right direction.

So as he opens his phone, he checks his email. And as he opens the latest mail from Jack, something in his chest lightens and lets him loose. His heart releases from the death grip the cold, iron vice his soul had him locked in. He's done it. Oh, he’s fucking done it. 

Wilbur lets out a laugh. The laugh is akin to a bark, like a dog, if he’d have to liken it to anything. He isn't much like a dog, though. Dogs are good, and they're innocent. Dogs do not obsess like Wilbur does. Wilbur is like a fox, he is like a snake. The angry thing in his soul howls with delight at the idea, or it hisses. It’s loud. It's so loud.

The cold, angry thing at his core only claws and thrashes harder at his insides at the idea of winning, at the words unmistakably, irrefutably written down on Wilbur’s phone screen. Wilbur scans over the line over and over and over and over again, imprinting the email font behind his eyes and in his head.

The story isn't over, though. It won't be over until people know exactly why Wilbur wants to rip this dearly important job directly out of Kai’s hands like a predator will snatch the life of prey. 

For now, though, Wilbur will wait. He will feed the fans with clues again, and he holds them all in the palm of his hand this time. Wilbur runs through possibilities for clues in his head, and the power he holds weighs on his shoulders. It’s on his brain like a crown. Like he's a king. 

Wilbur is a king. His crown is gold, it's glittering, and it speaks to him. And with that, he knows exactly what his newest clue will be.

_ Understanding your new position as king.  _


End file.
